Will the Watchman
by Maddy Carr
Summary: CHAPTER 7 UP! What does being a Watchman actually mean? Will is about to find out exactly what has been done to him. He is about the discover the real meaning of loneliness. This time, the battle will be all in his own mind.
1. Alone with your friends

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Will the Watchman

A/N: This story picks up from the very end of Silver on the Tree and is concerned with the psychological effects on Will of being the last of the Old Ones. I've always wondered about the implications of holding a very heavy responsibility, and yet being completely unable to seek help or consolation. Will, despite being an Old One, is also a teenage boy after all…

I don't own any of the characters, and I don't want to 'cos I couldn't cope with the responsibility. They all belong to the superlative Susan Cooper

CHAPTER ONE

Alone with your friends

Will was never entirely sure when it had started, only that it was very soon after. That lightness and happiness that had enveloped him when the Dark had finally been driven from the world was present with him for too short a time.

If he had been asked a couple of hours after what he was feeling, his immediate response would have been a grin, perhaps even a laugh. Observers would have seen the bubble of joy and relief behind his eyes, the upward tilt of his chin that bespoke an intermingling of pride and uncomplicated contentment. If anyone had asked how he felt a couple of hours after that, he wouldn't have been able to answer.

But no one asked him.

Why would they have reason?

He was never quite sure what the others remembered – what rationalities had been constructed in their minds to account for the past few days. The world had been forced into the commonplace logic of three-dimensions for them. Even Bran's unmistakable 'otherness' (unmistakable to an _Old One_ at least), was strangely muted, confined merely to his outward appearance. The awareness of things unspoken, things known, that Will had glimpsed in those strange light eyes so long ago had gone now.

This self-induced unknowing unsettled Will.

He had followed them back across the rain-damp fields, lingering with an almost unconscious reluctance to leave the place where Merriman had departed on his long journey. It was pride again that he felt, tingling through his blood and he smiled ruefully, a little guiltily that he should feel so much pleasure at the weight of responsibility placed upon him.

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'My Will the Watchman', he whispered quietly to himself, smiling again.

Not quietly enough apparently. Simon, who was just ahead of him, lagging a little behind the striding figures of Bran and Jane and the bouncing figure of Barney, turned his head sharply to stare at Will through narrowed eyes. Will was somewhat disconcerted, even puzzled at the thinly veiled suspicion in Simon's angular face, but he quickly maintained his customary blandness and Simon turned away without a word, shrugging his shoulders in a gesture that spoke eloquently of exasperation and indifference.

It was the first faint shadow to appear in Will's mind that bright afternoon.

Will stopped abruptly and stared at the figures of his friends ahead of him – and realised, suddenly, with something like fear, that perhaps he no longer had the right to call them friends any more.

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'What do they think of me now?'

The plaintive whisper insinuated itself into his mind and unavoidable thoughts followed hard on its heels.

Simon's instinctive proprietorial suspicion and jealously of Will had been overlaid with a grudging respect and desire to achieve a common goal but he no longer had any reason to suppress his distaste for the Buckinghamshire boy. They had nothing in common any more, after all.

Barney, more sensitive, but slavishly attached to his older brother, and besides he was younger and constantly misread Will's blandness as indifference. He was supposed to of course, but Will knew himself rather well after all and could not help but remember how he had felt an almost pleasurable thrill of shock when he realised that Jane had seen into him with barely an effort. Perhaps he had wanted her to know. Perhaps he had wanted them all to know.

Jane…

Was Jane still his friend? Like her brothers, she barely knew him without the dangers and the strange psychic enhancement of Merriman's presence in their lives. Yet he felt that she, of all the Drews, didn't _not_ know him. It was a strangely convoluted thought, but he felt the truth of it. Perhaps when they spoke next, he would _see_ the truth of it also. Perhaps she was one he would meet again. Yet, the feather touch of fear came again and he knew he could not approach her with that question. If she wanted friendship, she would have to come to him.

And the last. Never could he be the least. He was something, even in this muted state, he was something. Something more… _the once and future…_

Bran Davies.

A swell of emotion hitched Will lungs for a breathless moment. He knew so much of Bran. He knew things and felt things that no other creature knew or felt. But what did Bran know of him? Was there something still remaining in the quiescent depths of him that would recognise Will for what he was? Would he at least be able to acknowledge what they had shared?

With that thought, it was as if Will's quiet happiness had never been, was but a dream experienced fleetingly towards waking and only half-remembered. He slammed his eyes shut with pain, the tightness in his chest catching him entirely by surprise.

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It's no good me wishing for them to remember something. He thought bitterly, _Is that what I want? If I am to be the Watcher, I must be alone… How can I justify putting others in danger? Not only their lives, but their sanity…_

You are not a child to be wishing for things you can't have, he told himself sternly, _You are an Old One. The last of the Old Ones._

The Last

Alone…

And then, a last fleeting thought, quiet, plaintive, half-afraid to be heard, even in the privacy of his own mind,

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Merriman, what have you done to me…?


	2. When running away seems the only option

Disclaimer in Chapter One.

Review, review, review. Go on, you know you want to…

CHAPTER TWO

When running away seems the only option

"Will?"

His eyes flying open with shock, Will realised belatedly, and with chagrin, that he had stopped walking. He had been, in fact standing in the middle of a Welsh field with his eyes squeezed shut and his face screwed up into a grimace. _So much for acting normal…_

He glanced up resignedly into Bran's tawny eyes which were peering at him with surface amusement and buried concern.

"Er…", he managed. His eyes moved beyond Bran's face and took in the distant figures of Barney and Simon standing uphill from him. Even at that distance, Simon's stance contrived to indicate irritation. Jane was stood at the mid-distance, watching Will's face with less well concealed concern. She hovered, waiting.

Waiting for him to say something.

Except, he couldn't think of a thing to say.

He returned his gaze helplessly back to Bran, and tried frantically to galvanise his brain back into action at the flash of panic in his friend's pale face.

"Will…"

"Um…Sorry…I…"

He cleared his throat impatiently and as a wave of self-disgust washed over him, he closed his eyes briefly again to still his mind.

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You're an Old One. Act like one.

"Sorry, I'm tired, bit of a headache. Must be all the fresh air." He tried for a brisk, self-deprecating tone, but didn't feel himself to be all that convincing. _Just keep going…_

"Sorry to keep you waiting. Shall we press on? We've got a long way to go…"

His voice trailed off at the repetition of his earlier phrase. Words he'd spoken before the weight of the world had landed on his shoulders. To cover, he moved his shoulders, twisting past Bran's unmoving figure and set off up the hill at a steady pace, refusing to meet anyone's eye.

He should have known that Bran, even as he was, was not one to be easily fooled or distracted. Was not one to be chary of physicality when required, either. So Will was not particularly surprised when he felt his arm grasped firmly. He sighed and leaned forward, testing, and felt the pressure of Bran's fingers above his elbow tighten in response.

"You're starting to scare me, English…", a beat, "…more than usual, at any rate." 

The words were light, humorous even, but the underlying tension in Bran's voice compelled Will to stay his half-passive resistance. Reluctantly, he turned his head, drawn back to the strange eyes of the Pendragon.

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I would tell you if I could.

Will tried to convey the message with his own eyes, but was hard pressed to merely maintain the contact. He felt a flutter on panic in his stomach. Only two hours on the job, and he was screwing up so badly, his thoughtless pyromania in Tramp's Lane a couple of years ago seemed nothing in comparison. Less than nothing.

"Got a touch of the mountain madness, have you?"

"What…?"

"You were standing with your eyes shut for ten minutes. We thought you must have fallen asleep on your feet. Either that, or composing a poem, like"

Bran grinned. The concern remained in his eyes, but his demeanour was calm, considered. Offering him a way out…

Will felt a flutter of relief, eerily similar to the panic of a moment ago. He had the chance to shrug it off as a joke, maybe his oddness could be forgotten, or at least ignored. He felt his lips move in a responsive smile. Lopsided, but genuine.

"You've found me out. Knew I couldn't hide it from you. I was trying to find a rhyme for 'Sheep'"

A soft, amused sound escaped Bran's lips. Glancing to his left, Will saw that Jane had taken a step or two closer. There was the beginning of a tentative smile on her lips also. Bran's grin widened at his response and Will felt the tension in his stomach unclench a little. _Maybe it will be all right_. 

"I might have known", Bran retorted, his tone almost affectionate. "Thought you were a bit of a _dewin_ when I first met you…"

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Oh God

"What…what do you mean?"  


There must have been something in his voice because Will could practically feel Jane's frown of consternation from five feet away. Bran merely looked puzzled, as if he had no expectation of his jest being taken with any kind of seriousness and the thinly veiled concern reasserted its presence in his eyes.

Will knew he should assert his strength, his power, and take control of the conversation, but he felt strange and off balance. There were too many emotions in him, too many random thoughts in his mind for him to focus properly.

"A _dewin_ and poet as well, are you sure you're English, Will…?" Bran, ignoring Will's question, ploughed on, his jocularity becoming forced, his puzzlement plain.

"…I mean, perhaps…"

It was too much. Too much and too soon. Failure upon failure gripped him.

Will turned away, stomach clenching, but his determination reasserted itself.

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"You are a fool and a fool and a fool" he muttered feelingly oblivious to the startled intakes of breath from behind. When he turned back to face his friends, the Old One stood there. In the silence that followed, only the faint song of the lark could be discerned in a far off meadow.

Will remembered Stephen. Remembered the blanketing cloud of white plume moths in the summer haze. Remembered…

…and he knew that the pain he felt at their present incomprehension would be matched only by the pain of their future ignorance, the pain of loneliness. But he did it anyway. For the second time that afternoon, an Old One took their memories away.


	3. Taking the news

A/N: A longer chapter this time - getting into my stride! I've often wondered exactly how others saw Will and thought I'd explore that a little here. Nobody else at this point have their memories of Will as an Old One to draw on, but there must be memories of some sort taking their place. What exactly would those memories be? And I truly think that Will would be perceived as 'odd' by any standards. He's an Old One and he demonstrates again and again his maturity, but Cooper also makes it clear that that part of him is quiescent until it's needed. If he's to be a 'Watchman', he must surely be aware of it all the time now and he's also yet to discover exactly what it all entails. The poor boy is only 12 years old for pity's sake! Pressure, much?

Thanks to **Thyme** and **Ananda** for the reviews. Keep on reading!

CHAPTER THREE

Taking the news

Five figures, spread out in a straggling line tramped the last few hundred yards towards Tywyn. Tired and hungry, their pace was measured, but Will Stanton had never felt so out of step in his life. Out of step with his friends, with his thoughts, with himself. And what was worse, he couldn't understand why.

From elation to depression so fast his head had spun.

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I'm an Old One. He repeated it in his head, a kind of mantra, attempting to regain that sense of surety and confidence he had felt at the falling of the Dark. That confidence had faltered badly, and he knew it. Where had his bland mask gone when he needed it? His stupid, erratic behaviour had alerted Bran to something off-key and he could not even be certain that his attempt to encourage them to forget had been entirely successful. It was hardly something that could be tested…

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…Excuse me, Simon, but was I behaving strangely a few minutes ago…?

Not that he would have asked Simon anyway. Not with those dark, suspicious looks that came his way every so often. He couldn't tell if it was caused by present or past dislike, or even a mixture of both and to Simon they were all one in any case. That churlish cold-shoulder that had been shown to a strange interfering English boy in Cornwall was back in full force.

As for Bran, Will was simply avoiding him altogether.

He tramped on, and caught himself back from wishing for Merriman's presence for the umpteenth time. Even off-balance, as he was, the Old One in him knew that contacting that enigmatic figure at such a distance was not something to be undertaken lightly. That would be for another time and place. He only wished that he had been given more detailed instructions. 

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What am I supposed to be watching **for**?

The answer would come. These things had a way of making themselves known to him at the right time, but he couldn't prevent himself feeling helpless and vulnerable as though he was standing at a precipice. 

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Or holding back a flood

The thought came fast and unexpected and with it, a surge of something he would later identify as resentment.

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Later, he would also have cause to kick himself for his uncharacteristic self-obsession. So distracted had he been by his turbulent emotions on the walk back to Bryn-Crug that he had forgotten a detail he surely should have prepared himself for. 

Blodwen Rowlands was dead.

A car crash, probably. An accident at any rate. An event that he knew more about than anyone living, and he had forgotten in the midst of his self-pity. Forgotten so completely, that when the solemn, soul-sick face of his Uncle David had greeted them at the door of Clwyd Farm, apprehension had thrummed through him without an inkling of the true reason for that expression.

Then, in a gentle, muted voice, David Evans told them.

His first emotion was chagrin, followed hard by a swirl of relief so vivid, his head reeled. He was not sure, even later, why he should have felt such relief, but his first glance at his semi-Uncle's face had sparked a feeling of irrational dread in him, a dread so instinctive and primitive that it defied analysis. But that thought was for later, for on the heels of the relief came the shame that he should have felt relieved in the first place, then a faint pricking of cold fear at his true knowledge of what had really occurred. An agent for the Dark she had been. A loving wife and kind neighbour too. How could that be reconciled?

His face had felt strange, bloodless; the exclamations of shock from his friends coming from far off. What was wrong with his hearing? Then a strange darkness, a rushing...

"Will!"

…confusing sounds…a hand at the back of his neck…the horizon tilted, then steadied…

He came back to himself, seated on the ground, cold and uncomfortable, his head thrust low between his knees and held there by the none-too-steady hand of David Evans.

The hand gentled, rubbed softly.

"All right there, Will, _Bach?_"

Will sucked in a deep breath and shrugged his shoulders almost imperceptibly so that the hand moved and he was able to lift his head. Reluctantly, half-ashamed, he met his uncle's eyes. Concern in them, as it had been in the soft endearment, also a touch of bemusement quickly turning to chagrin. What must Uncle David see on his face, Will wondered?

"I'm fine", he said roughly. "Sorry".

He made as if to stand up, but the hand lifted again and pressed on his shoulder, keeping him on the ground.

"What have you got to be sorry about, _Cariad_?". 

Uncle David crouched before him, his voice earnest and brow furrowed in worry. Will could only be relieved that his body shielded him from the no-doubt curious gazes of his friends.

"…it was just the shock, like. Can take you in unexpected ways."

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Shock?

Will's mind whirled. Was that what this was all about?

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Maybe, maybe… 

"Um…" he managed.

A shadow moved to his left. Will startled and lifted his head instinctively. He found himself looking directly into Bran's eyes and the intensity of that gaze jolted through him, forcing the strange fuzziness in his brain to dissipate.

"Will?"

Bran crouched as he spoke.

"Yes?"

Bran looked down at the ground for an instant, his lips pursed thoughtfully. He glanced at David Evans fleetingly, then back at Will. The look was too intense, too knowing. Will gaped at him stupidly, tensing slightly in anticipation of the question to come. When it did come, it took him completely by surprise,

"When did you last have something to eat?"

"What?"

Bran ignored him, glancing back at David Evans, his mouth twisting in a rueful grimace.

"Stupid English", he said, half-humorously. "Didn't have any lunch, did he?"

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What on earth?

Will couldn't wrap his head around it. What was Bran talking about? What exactly did he think had happened today? Then, his mind grasping, he realised belatedly that Bran was offering him a way out – an explanation of sorts. Why he felt that one was needed was a question for later and when they were alone; for the moment, Will would take any moments of grace that he could.

"I…I don't remember", he faltered. Which was at least true.

David Evans sighed in a peculiarly Welsh manner and tousled Will's hair with his callused hand. It was an action he might have used on one of his own sheepdogs. Affectionate and reassuring.

"Well, that was daft, boy", he said, not unkindly. "Go and see Auntie Jen and make sure you eat something now. Your mother will be accusing us of neglecting you."

Uncle David smiled at Will; relief on his face, but enough tension left to mark a furrow between his brows. Will felt an absurd desire to start apologising and never stop for causing even a moments worry for this kindest of men, but merely bit his lip and allowed himself to be pulled slowly to his feet. They felt steady enough. He risked a glance around him and noticed the Drews, standing in a huddle, slightly apart. They were feigning polite disinterest, as he might have expected, but he could feel their keen interest in events like a pricking on the back of his neck. 

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Why are you so angry with me, Simon Drew? thought Will suddenly, his eyes on the taller boy. But Simon turned away, hiding those sullen eyes. Jane, for once oblivious to the undercurrents, smiled slightly at Will, her eyebrows raised questioningly. Will forced a smile back, and shrugged deprecatingly.

He was forced to turn away when Uncle David grasped his shoulder and steered him towards the Farmhouse. 

"Go on then, _Bach_. Inside with you and mind you wipe those feet. Better still, take your trainers off altogether…"

The voice trailed off and Will responded unresistingly to the gentle shove between his shoulder blades.

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I'll deal with it all later.

"Go with him, Bran", Uncle David continued, "Sit on him if you have to, until he gets some proper food in him. He mustn't…"

The voice trailed off again, but more abruptly. Will, disconcerted by the strange quality of the pause that followed, turned to see Uncle David and Bran gazing at each other, expressions serious and intent.

"I know", stated Bran softly but with finality.

Will felt a fine, cold sweat break out over his back. What was up with them now? He felt strangely exposed, almost embarrassed suddenly. There was too much happening that he didn't understand. Was he truly so paranoid that he thought…

"Come on then, _boyo_", said Bran sounding surprisingly cheerful, but firm with it. He grabbed Will by the arm and dragged him forward until Will found his feet and jogged slightly to catch up.

Displeased, his nerves still jangling from that strange exchange of glances, Will muttered, "What was all that about?"

"All what?" replied Bran, unconvincing and knowing it.

"Don't humour me!" Will practically growled. "You know what I mean. That little let's-not-tell-Will-anything conspiracy you've got going on with Uncle David."

He knew that petulance was unlike him, but couldn't seem to stop himself.

Bran sighed heavily and stopped walking. He turned and narrowed his eyes appraisingly at Will's scowl.

"He just worries", he said quietly. Then practically inaudible, "I do too." Bran looked away and stared off into the middle distance, lost in thought.

Will was starting to realise just how much everything had changed. Did he have to suddenly re-evaluate his relationship with _everybody_?

"Worried about what?" he asked, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.

Bran sighed again as though resigned.

"Well…" he trailed off, started again, "…you know what you're like…"

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Did he?

"…you take some watching, you do. Because of…because you're…"

"Because I'm what?"

"Kind of…fragile, like"

"_What?_" 

Bran merely shrugged and smiled.

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Fragile?

Will stared down at his stocky body, the sturdy legs and feet planted solidly on the damp grass. A sense of unreality enveloped him.

"_Me?_"

Bran huffed slightly, amused and started back up the path the Farmhouse door.

"You and your odd illnesses, and funny turns." He said over his shoulder.

"Funny turns?" Will wavered, uncertainly.

"You don't _look_ fragile, mind. I mean, you look normal, don't you?"

"Do I? I mean, I do."

"You're just a bit…sensitive. Like this afternoon, when you came over all wobbly like a mad poet. Typical, I thought. Barmy English. Funny no one else seemed to notice…"

Bran's voice was muffled in the shadow of the doorway and Will, who had faltered at Bran's words, followed more slowly into the house. _Didn't work_, he thought, unsurprised. _Not on Bran, anyway_. There was too much of the High Magic in him, probably. A dark, silent undercurrent that Will could not touch, even with the powers at his disposal.

Bran was swallowed into the gloom of the hallway. Will felt oddly bereft. Adrift. He could almost laugh at his own paranoia; worried about how he might be appearing, but apparently he'd always seemed odd to them. He couldn't equate it - he was too full of shared experience that only he could remember. He shivered.

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Who am I? He thought, suddenly.

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Who am I?

TBC 


	4. Introspection and conversation

Disclaimer in first part

Hello all

Chapter 4 finally up (sorry about the delay), Chapter 5 hopefully up sometime before the weekend.

Thanks and comments to the following:

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BlindSeer: Cheers! ;-) Not very quickly I'm afraid, but chapter 5 should be quicker. As for your question - yeah, that's pretty much my intention, except I think Will himself will start to doubt his own mental stability too…

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Ski-Ming Bitch: Thanks. I think Susan Cooper is at great pains to point out that Will is an Old One AND a young boy, and I don't think it's too much of a stretch to suppose that he's going to be deeply conflicted because of that.

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Norah-hunt: I hope you won't be disappointed by where this goes!

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Kalariah: I agree, I think Will's left in a pretty sad position myself. I was always worried by the lack of resolution in Silver on the Tree - what is Will supposed to be watching for? How's he going to cope with the responsibility? I think Merriman's too caught up in being 'mystical' to care much about how Will is feeling. Yes, Jane will continue to be friendly - can't say the same for Simon though…

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Silent H: Sorry you're confused - but Will's even more confused than any of us! Hope things will get clearer for you.

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Just a visitor: Bran will be a big ally in all this, but Will has to go home and face his family first, so his intervention will be from afar for a while. Chapter 5 will be Bran's POV, though.

CHAPTER FOUR

Introspection and conversation

The kitchen clock crept towards half-past seven and Will sat, quiet and unnoticed for the moment. Calmer than he had been a couple of hours before, but still unsure, still realising that more had changed than had thought.

Perhaps, he considered, the question shouldn't have been, _Who am I?_ But, _Who was I?_ Who was the Will that existed in the heads of his friends? He thought about Cornwall and considered that really, there was little about his interaction with the Drews that they shouldn't be able to legitimately remember, but in their version of events, there would surely be no resolution of their initial and instinctive mistrust of him. No realisation of his bond with Merriman. No motivation for Simon to rein back his genuine dislike. That it was genuine dislike, even jealousy, Will had no doubt. The _why_ for it was much less clear. And of course, they would have brought those feelings to Wales. Were they shocked when they had seen him on that hillside? Dismayed? Angry, even?

The question remained. What exactly did they remember? 

Will rubbed his chin meditatively against his lifted knees. He considered the possibility that Merriman had not merely erased the pertinent events from their minds, but substituted new memories. New conversations, subtly different from the original. New events, removing the fear and the uncertainty. What memories had replaced the glory of the shining silver blossom on the tree? Could such a deep-reaching spell even be done? Will could not think of anything contained within the Book of Gramarye that even touched on power of such complexity. Unless… Well there was always the possibility that there was far more to be learned about his power than Merriman had told him.

That thought alone, and the faint mistrust it implied, was enough to disturb him more than all the rest.

Will sighed heavily and hunched his face forwards into the valley between his knees and chest, wrapping his arms securely around his legs. The dry, analytical part of his mind recognised the posture as the foetal position of insecurity but he made no attempt to move out of it. He was too concerned by his continued confusion. He felt much better physically - Auntie Jen had force-fed him a couple of sandwiches and an apple and on returning to his room, he had surprised himself by falling deeply and dreamlessly asleep. However, the illusion of serenity when he awoke, refreshed, a couple of hours later, had quickly disappeared. Nearly his first thought had been that it was _his_ memories of the past two years that were illusory and he had had to spend his waking moments fighting back adrenaline pumping panic.

Now he just felt tired again. Tired and paranoid and oddly resentful. There was another trial ahead as well. The Drews were returning shortly to say their goodbyes - their train was leaving Aberdyfy early the next morning. Goodbye to their twice-acquainted barely-friend Will Stanton and the odd Welsh boy with an odder sounding name. The properly brought-up and polite thing to do. Will would have been amused if he hadn't felt so emotionally battered. So here he was, sat halfway up the back staircase of the old farmhouse, gathering courage. Waiting.

There was a knock at the front door, muffled so that he barely startled. He lifted his head nonetheless and the soft lilt of Welsh voices drifted up to him.

Bran. 

Will wanted - no _needed_ to talk to Bran, but he couldn't do it tonight. Not while there were to be so many confusing and conflicting emotions to deal with. The voices moved nearer to his position, into the warm kitchen that was the real heart of the house. When Will had been to Wales the first time, when he had still felt ill and disinclined to do anything energetic, he had liked to sit near the range in a puddle of warmth, listening to the musical voices around him. The Welsh language, barely understood, but strangely inclusive nonetheless. He listened to it again, but this time hidden in shadow, feeling like a stranger to people he cared for.

Will wrapped his arms more securely around his tucked up knees and rested his cheek against the carved wooden banister of the staircase. He could smell the faint patina of beeswax and the dark wood was smooth and cool against his skin. The old house seemed to shift and creak around him, which was oddly comforting, but the voices from the kitchen became indistinct, so he reluctantly lifted his head into its previous listening posture.

He supposed he should go downstairs and greet everyone but was reluctant to leave the illusion of security the quiet dark spot he sat in afforded him. He would go down when the Drews arrived in any case, but found himself drawing his knees in tighter at the thought and wondered just why he felt so unable to meet them.

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I'll never see them again, after today…

He didn't know where the thought came from, but it sprang into his mind with a certainty that shook him and left him closer to tears than he had been for several years. He could give no reason why he was so sure, only that everything had changed. He had felt so close to them under the midsummer tree; the Old One in him had delighted in their determination, their gallantry. He remembered the awe in Barney's face and the radiance of Jane's smile…

"Hello Mrs. Evans."

Barney's cheerful voice startled Will out of his thoughts sending a frisson of nervous energy through him. So immersed had he been in his memories, he had not even heard the knock on the door. This was his cue of course, but he was frozen in place. Waiting again. 

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Waiting for what?

"Hello, dear. Come in all of you. Can I take your coat, Jane?"

The gentleness of Auntie Jen's adopted Welsh lilt was soothing after the clipped English tones of the youngest Drew. 

"Thanks Mrs. Evans"

Will found himself relaxing imperceptibly at Jane's voice. So very…normal. 

"Hello, Jenny-oh"

Layers of affection in Bran's teasing voice. Will relaxed almost into a smile. This too was normal. This he remembered from before.

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He likes her. It's the first time they've met, but you can hear it in his voice.

Will _did_ smile then as the conversation merrily continued. What was it about Bran and Jane? _They_ were still his friends, surely? He found himself rising to his feet before the thought had finished. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad after all?

"Where's Will?"

Simon's voice. Curiosity and…something else? Will paused.

Auntie Jen answered in comfortable tones, "He's upstairs, I think. He went for a lie down"

A short silence followed. Then a soft sound, somewhere between and snort and a cough, but one in which the meaning was not at all lost on the listeners. 

Amused contempt.

Will froze.

"_Simon!"_

Jane's horrified whisper seemed to make the tension worse. Will held his breath in anticipation. Would Simon's uncharacteristic rudeness be politely ignored?

"What was that for, then?"

Apparently not.

Bran's voice was quiet, measured, almost hesitant. Will knew that out of all of them, the Welsh boy could not let the moment pass unchallenged.

Simon's laugh in response seemed forced and self-conscious.

"I didn't mean anything," he said lightly. "Only…"

Silence as he trailed off. No one was going to pull him out of his hole it seemed.

"Only what, lad?"

Uncle David's voice was quiet, as always, but sterness tempered it.

"What would you say of Will that you couldn't say to his face?" he continued.

Will knew it was a question designed to embarrass Simon into an apology. He didn't think it would work, though. Some dark and formless warning seemed to be growing in his mind. He began to wonder…

"I...I. Well…" Simon broke off and laughed again with forced nonchalance. "I didn't mean to be rude. I just thought suddenly…I mean, why would he want to lie down after such a short walk as we had?"

It was not bad as a cover, but Will thought he could still hear a touch of contempt in the contrite voice. The contempt of a healthy, unreflective boy for someone not quite like him. Uncle David had obviously come to the same conclusion for his voice became a little more agitated,

"It wasn't just 'a short walk' that occurred today, I'm thinking…" he began, but Auntie Jen rapidly interrupted him.

"Hush now, David" she began soothingly, "you're embarrassing the lad. It's been a long and hard day for everyone. He likely forgot that Will was feeling poorly earlier, didn't you, love?" The last question was obviously directed towards Simon.

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Bless you, Auntie Jen

"Oh. Yes of course." Simon's voice _sounded_ relieved, but some vague instinct for danger was bringing a tightness to Will's chest.

"I forgot. He…fainted, didn't he?"

__

Oh my God.

Simon hadn't even attempted to disguise the contempt in his voice this time. It was obvious to everyone in the room. Will heard the horrified inrush of Auntie Jen's voice and stared at his hands, desperately wondering what on earth he'd done to Simon to make him hate him so much.

"Simon…"

The outrage was drained from Jane's voice. She sounded puzzled, tremulous.

Suddenly it was unendurable. More unendurable still to overhear this than to take it face on. A tremor passed convulsively through his hands, then Will thrust them quickly into the pockets of his jeans and thumped noisily down the stairs before another word could be uttered.

"Evening, everyone", he said cheerfully from the kitchen door.

The tension snapped, swirled, reformed itself into a new pattern. Will was almost, _almost_ tempted to stop time just to study the looks on their faces. He wasn't even halfway sure that he would get the spell right, though and besides, he wanted to see how Simon interacted with him. He wanted to seek a denial of the suspicion growing in his mind.

"Will, love! Did you have a nice rest, then?"

Auntie Jen bustled over, her cheeks suspiciously pink and a searching, anxious look in her kind eyes. Will tore his eyes away from the fascinating sight of Jane's embarrassed face and the hint of gritted teeth in Bran's jaw and smiled at his Aunt.

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She wants to know if I heard anything, but knows she can't ask…

"Lovely, thanks. All this country air making me sleepy, I think"

A polite, amused snort from Uncle David's direction,

"And you a country boy yourself!"

Will grinned at him,

"Ah, but we don't have mountains in Buckinghamshire. Unless you count the Chilterns?"

Bran provided the expected response to Will's extremely mild jest.

"Pah! The Chilterns? They're hills. Flat ones too. That the best you can do?"

"Guess so" Will replied good-naturedly. He could feel the relaxing of tension in the room like feathers against his skin. Still smiling, although the expression felt forced, Will turned back towards Jane.

"Hello" he said, feeling the rigidity of his cheeks muscles soften at the relief on her face.

"Hello, Will"

"Hi, Barney" said Will, moving on. He was quietly amused at the lowered head and shuffling feet of the younger brother, the boy not old enough to cope with the complex emotions flying around the room. He received a reluctant, muffled greeting, but had already shifted his attention to the elder brother.

"Simon", he said, as neutrally as he could manage. Auntie Jen shifted at his side as if she was trying to prevent herself from intervening and Will wondered if his tone was rather too flat after all. His fists clenched slowly at his sides. He felt stretched and hyper-aware; was the dread he felt instinct or paranoia?

Simon raised his head and looked Will in the eye.

"Will", he said. Just as neutral. Just as flat.

Will slowly pulled in his breath and stared back. He fought a wince at the glaring contempt in the other boy's eyes and forced himself to take his time. He'd have to be pretty stupid not to realise that Simon despised him by now, but he was looking for something quite different…

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See as an Old One…

Will blinked. Time seemed to slow; the heavy tick of the kitchen clock grew laboured, the sound lingering unnaturally in his ears. An unseen breeze ruffled Will's fringe. Strange to be using his power like this, so soon after it should have been unnecessary.

Simon looked levelly back, his eyes dark.

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The Drews didn't stay long. Their parents were picking them up on their way back from a restaurant in Taliesin and they had an early start the next morning. The conversation in the kitchen had stuttered and struggled and Will had contributed little to it. Auntie Jen and Bran had talked the most, as Will had expected but he sensed in both of them a desire just as strong as his own to see the guests leave.

He had shaken their hands - it was what one did, wasn't it? Simon's too, although the clasp had been brief and reluctant. Jane's hand had lingered longer in his own and he had felt warmed by it; touched too when he felt a slip of paper pressed against his palm and suspected that it was her address. Did she want him to write to him, then? He was gratified and she bestowed a smile of more sweetness upon him than Will felt he deserved.

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Go away, Jane. I'm an idiot. I thought your brother had been possessed by the Dark.

He cringed internally at the thought. Just how stupid was he anyway? Was he so unbalanced he was seeing monsters under every bed?

__

Is this what it's going to be like from now on?

Of course Simon hadn't been possessed. He was perfectly normal, perfectly human. He had known that even before his supernatural sense had taken over but had not been able to comprehend it. That was why he had felt no relief, only a slow, heavy wash of self-loathing.

Simon didn't hate him because he was an Old One. Simon hated him because he was Will Stanton.

He couldn't say he felt very good about that.

"I'm off home too. Da will be fretting."

Bran's voice startled Will out of his thoughts. He suddenly and desperately wanted his friend to stay, but made no move to prevent him leaving. He settled for looking steadily into those strange tawny eyes. Bran looked at him intently as he backed towards the kitchen door.

"We'll talk tomorrow?" he said softly. It was phrased as a question, but sounded more like a command.

"Yes," said Will simply and returned Bran's sudden surprised smile.

White hair flashed in the soft light and the door closed.

"Will?"

Will sighed inaudibly and pushed his hair back from his face as he turned to his Uncle.

"I know it's none of my business, like, but…"

David Evans paused, his earnest face tense with concern and reluctance to intrude. Will felt a surge of affection for him.

"Yes?"

"Did anything happen today? With your friends?"

A series of mad, kaleidoscopic images whirled through Will's mind. A horse of bone, a burning sword, the Afanc by the lake, Barney's grin of triumph…a flood of emotion - terror, heartbreak, sadness…

"I don't know," he replied finally, as truthfully as he could.

TBC

Coming soon…Chapter Five: My friend, Will Stanton

In which Bran will get his say…


	5. My friend, Will Stanton

Author's Note

Nice long chapter for you J 

Sorry - I didn't update as fast as I'd hoped as Bran had far more to say for himself than I'd anticipated. These Welshmen can talk when they want to, you know!

I'd really appreciate some feedback on this as this fic has turned into something of a character study and I'm usually far more plot driven. I usually 'bring the funny' a lot more as well, so I'm a bit unsure about the tone of this. Too melodramatic? You decide!

I always thought that the friendship between Bran and Will was one of the most touching aspects of TDiR and was desperate to get Bran's side of this story. There's no doubt in my mind that they would continue to be friends whatever, but given that Bran has just had his memories, not to mention knowledge of his birthright, erased, I was interested in exploring how this affected their relationship. BTW, this is NOT slash…not that I have any objection to slash, ;-).…but, they are only 12! 

Thank you to:

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kalariah: Ooh, I love long reviews :0) I think you've got Simon, Barney and Jane spot on and that's pretty much the way I wanted to portray them. I'm guilty of indulging my prejudices a bit though, 'cos I never forgave Simon for being such a prat in _Greenwitch_. I think Bran _is_ the only person Will could ever tell the truth to, but I'm not gonna do it here, as that would destroy the whole point of the story and I think Bran knowing the truth would kind of negate the whole Owen/Arthur choice he made.

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jlynn: Thank you, I'm glad you think it's faithful to the story. I wanted to explore some of the unanswered questions bugging me after SotT without getting bogged down in 'Oh no, the Dark has come back' senarios. I'll start tackling exactly how he might approach the whole 'watching' thing in the next chapter, so keep reading!

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liptonrm: Wow! What a fantastic review, thank you so much. I hope you find Bran's voice authentic in this chapter as I was a bit unsure about using the first person here, but he is so distinctive, I couldn't resist the challenge. Hope you keep reading.

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norah-hunt: Thanks Norah, glad you're still enjoying it. This chapter is a little different, so I hope you stick with it. More of Will in chapter 6.

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silent H: Poor old Bran, he's the one that's _really_ confuzzled in this chapter. I couldn't stop him from lapsing into Welsh either…

CHAPTER FIVE

My Friend, Will Stanton

I said goodbye to Will this morning. 

When I got back from the Evans' farm, Da asked me when 'that English boy' would be coming back to Wales.

Sounds a bit cold, doesn't it?

He didn't mean it like it sounds, though. You've got to know him to understand him, and I can tell you this much, not many people get close enough to Owen Davies to say that they really know him. Sometimes he's a mystery to me, too. But I knew what he meant by the question. He's never said so, but I think he worries that his private ways have isolated me; I've never been known to bring a school friend home at any rate…

My choice.

No…mostly my choice. Can't say I ever liked not have friends, but when you feel apart because of the way you look, the way I see it, you either get all bitter and twisted, or…well, you end up sort of liking it.

Sounds daft, I know, but there's enough truth in that for me to say it here.

Anyway. 'The English boy'. Da was saying two things when he asked me that question. I heard his worry for me, his concern that I'd let my solitary habits push away a potential friendship, and with it a kind of reassurance. He meant that if Will came to Wales, he would be coming to see _me_ as much as the Evans'.

I told him I didn't know, which was my way of reassuring him too. 

It's what works for us.

What I didn't tell him was that I was absolutely certain that Will would be coming back here soon, and not just because I'd asked him, but because he seems to belong here. For a _Sais_, he's pretty damned Welsh.

I don't mean that he had a way with the language (although he wasn't bad), or some strange skill in sheep farming, or anything, but…well, he just seemed to _get_ us. He got me at any rate.

That was a surprise, I can tell you. Appeared out of nowhere, he did, and I found myself telling him things I'd never told anybody before. Although it was Cafall that found him first…

But I'm getting ahead of myself. The truth is, he's my _best_ friend and I can't imagine ever not being friends with him. A strange thing to say about someone I've only seen twice in the space of a year and a half, but then again, I'm pretty strange myself and Will…Will is stranger that anyone I've ever met before.

How can I describe him? He's a tricky customer is Will Stanton. You can't depend on first impressions with him - or even second ones, in fact you've got to work pretty hard to get any impression of him at all. It's not just because of that odd blank expression he gets on him either, the trouble with Will is that you've got to read between the lines - what he _doesn't_ say is often more important than what he _does_ say, and most of the time he's quieter than my Da. 

I think I'm making him sound shy, but he's not that. I've seen him completely unintimidated by an angry Caradog Pritchard, which takes some doing, even from a grown man. He's not afraid to tell someone when he thinks they're wrong, either - he had some stern words for me when I blew up at Jane a few days ago. What was it he said, now? Something like, _"you may not…let go, like that."_

Sounds a bit pompous, doesn't it? Truthfully, it wasn't at all. Made me feel bad, he did; reminded me that I was the leader of the little expedition to Happy Valley and should treat the poor _geneth _with more respect. Funny thing is, I can't even recall exactly why I got into heated words with Jane in the first place. I remember thinking at the time that she had a black cloud over her the size of the _Cwm Maethlon_ and the only explanation I could come up with was that she was jealous of me being there and interfering in their cosy little reunion with Will. Ironic really, because I soon realised that the Drews barely knew him, and Simon (more on that one later), didn't even like him.

Didn't stop me getting angry. Even if I sometimes quite enjoy my oddness, doesn't mean I like being made to feel like an outsider. In stepped Will and sorted me out. A few words from him and I suddenly felt like an idiot, like my anger and the chip on my shoulder were as nothing compared to…

…Well, I don't know what exactly, but that's Will all over - saying things, important things, and making you believe them, even if you don't understand what he's going on about half the time. There was a look in his eye as well, intense and serious, telling me he was with me and understood. 

Am I making him sound arrogant now? Perhaps he is, a little bit. Not in a bad way, just a sort of…confidence when he looks at you and says something so certain that you never doubt the truth of it.

Doesn't sound much like a twelve-year-old, does he? Can't say I've ever seen him behave like a twelve year old either and that may be what comes from being the youngest of that ridiculously large family of his but I know it's more than that. Will Stanton was born old and no one can tell me any different.

As I said, a tricky customer.

Trouble is, I'm thinking about what I've just said, and it doesn't really explain Will at all; all right so he's quiet and he's sometimes confident and he's mature and...and he's all of those things and none of them too because he's far more than the sum of his parts. Looks ordinary, he does; one of those you never notice – medium height, round face, brown hair, pleasant smile, normal, normal, normal.

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Duw, normal my foot.

You just have to make the effort to notice, _really_ notice him for half a minute to see how far from ordinary he is; one moment he's standing there, all polite smiles and bland words, the next his eyes go all distant and strange like he's watching things you can't quite make out and suddenly he's so vivid and so _real_ you want to close your eyes against a non-existent glare and at one and the same time, he's so insubstantial, he's like a will'o the wisp, stretching himself thin upon the wind.

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Iesu caradig, don't I sound the total nutcase? (and wouldn't my Da have hard words for all this blaspheming I'm doing). That's what Will does to me, though. Scares me silly with his ways so's I don't know if I'm coming or going; does something so completely unexpected, or just plain mad as a hatter that I wonder if that's what having a nervous breakdown feels like. How do you cope with a twelve-year-old who sticks his hands in his pockets and sings his heart out slap bang in the middle of one of the busiest tourist trails in Mid-Wales without a trace of embarrassment on his face? They don't exactly write a manual for that one, do they?

What can you say to the boy who will run himself ragged and argue with angry farmers and look shattered by despair just because a boy he'd just met had lost his dog? I don't think that he realised at the time that I'd noticed just how much he cared about what was happening and I never thanked him for it, even later when my grief for Cafall was less sharp and hurtful. Truth is, I didn't understand then why he should care, just as I didn't understand until later that he cares for everyone and everything, except himself. He's one who carries the weight of the world on his shoulders.

That's what's so worrying being his friend. Why you have to watch out for him. He'd probably deny to his last breath that he needed looking after, but I know better and so too does John Rowlands and David Evans, although we've never discussed it amongst ourselves. We've all three seen him at his worst, pale as an _ysbryd_ at All Hallow's Eve, breathless and vulnerable with those dark circles beneath his eyes. His worst and his best all in one – beating flames back from a burning hill with more strength than you would credit him, saving Pen with nothing more than a grin and way with a bicycle. We watch him and we worry because he's Will Stanton. He's special. He's important.

I couldn't tell you why or for what. I couldn't even tell you how I know, but I knew it as soon as I first saw him, rolling down that hill and Cafall staring at him and grinning as only dogs can grin. This odd boy, pale and shaken, looked at me and there was a look in his eyes, strangely knowing, as though he recognised me. Something clicked in me then, not exactly the same recognition, but more like realising I'd finally reached a moment I hadn't known I was waiting for. I think I knew that he would change my life. 

He gives me the willies, that one. Mad English, but mad in that Welsh way, like _Myrddin ab Morvryn_, the poet of the hills. One who sees what isn't there and dreams of the stars and the mountains and the ancient places.

Who's poetical now? I'd laugh if I heard anyone else say things like that. Will's not a loony, however I may be describing him. In fact he's as sane as anyone I've met is, and sensible with it. It's just…you can't ever know him without realising that there is a part to him that is different, that's all. It's not something I think about a lot, really, however this might appear, it's just that this last day has been a worry to me. 

He's troubled.

More than troubled sometimes. Yesterday he…fainted? Something very like it, anyway. This morning he was as upset as I've ever seen him. And, I don't really know why.

Something happened yesterday.

And fool that I am, I didn't even realise until later. Something…changed somewhere and, _Duw_, I'm so vague about it, I'm starting to annoy myself. I thought about it lying in bed and was surprised how little I remembered about our little walking trip - lots of hills, a good view of the sea, I found a pretty stone and gave it to Jane…something about a tree? Odd and disconnected memories, except for one - Will standing at the bottom of a hill with his eyes shut, looking terrified and uncertain like he'd been cut adrift on a small boat in a storm. I went over to him, of course, and glanced at Simon as I passed. The look on his face shocked me - he was staring at Will with something like hatred. Had he been doing that all day? I didn't think so, but he was doing it then. Did something happen that turned the on malevolence in him, like the snap of a light switch?

And fainting like that. Was it just shock? I don't know. I was scared when I saw him turn white and fall like he did, but I was scared already by what David Evans had told us and we were all of us still shocked by it later. My Da felt it most, I think, Mrs. Rowlands dying like that, so sudden, like. He wanted me home early and for once I didn't argue with him. So maybe that was what it was with Will?

But I know that wasn't all. Not with what happened last night when Simon came, not with what Will said to me this morning.

I should explain. We met this morning near the paddock behind the main shearing barn on the Evans farm. That is, I was walking that roundabout way to the farm on a whim and found Will sat on the gate waiting for me. As this sort of thing seems to happen so much around him, I couldn't be bothered with surprise so I smiled at him instead. He smiled back but looked pale as if he hadn't slept much. But then I'd not slept that well either and…I can't help but look pale, now can I?

We chatted a bit. I can't remember the exact words now - silly things like, "You're off, then?" and "How's Mr. Davies?" and such like. I think I might have said something, half joking, about him maybe staying another week and he became very still and silent and stared very hard at the mist rising off the valley.

"I _have_ to go home," he said very quietly.

He was so serious that for a moment I wondered if he'd had some bad news from his family. I think he realised this too, because he shook his head as though he'd heard the question in my mind.

"It's not _them_," he said, so softly I barely caught it. He looked away and I watched the back of his head.

I could have kicked myself for being slow on the uptake. Of course. Whatever it was going on in his head had him spooked so badly he wanted to run back home with his tail between his legs and lick his wounds for a while. Security, like. I could understand why he just didn't say it either. Not the sort of thing that boys talk about, is it? Not even half-mad English _dewinau._

So. Whatever was bothering him was not something he could cope with alone, then? But how to ask?

"Will…"

He turned his head back and smiled. He had his blank face on

"I like how you give my name two syllables when you say it."

Did I say he was a tricky one?

"Be serious, man! How's a good _Cymro_ supposed to have a decent conversation with the likes of you?"

He chuckled softly, "All right. A decent conversation needs a decent question…" he paused, then a more tentative look came into his eyes.

"What do you think of the Drews?"

I could have been surprised, but this was Will and he didn't shirk the difficult stuff unless he wanted to. That Simon was one of the things troubling him was in my mind and I could see he was leading up to the subject.

"I don't know. You know them better than me."

He smiled, but the smile didn't reach his eyes.

"I'm not sure I do. I mean, I _thought_ I knew them, but I'm not so sure any more."

And I wasn't so sure what he meant either. He was groping for his words as though he was trying to say something and _not_ say it at the same time. Or avoiding saying something. He was worrying me again, but I tried to keep my answers light.

"Barney's a nice boy. Keeps you on your toes with those questions of his."

Will smiled and nodded, so I kept on with it,

"Mad keen, that one. Enthusiastic, I mean. That thing he's got with King Arthur…"

Will's face didn't change, but I stopped talking anyway because he had that stillness about him again. He looked at me, really looked I mean, and his eyes got so sad that I blinked and wondered what I'd said.

"Yes. Arthur."

His voice sounded as though it was coming from far away. He turned his head quickly then as though he was self-conscious. Odd.

"I like Jane." I said it quickly and without thinking because the silence had suddenly become uncomfortable.

"Yes, so do I."

"Do you now?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

I'll give Will this, he recovers quickly. His voice had that half-joking indignation it gets when I tease him.

"Nothing at all," I said innocently.

To my relief, he looked back at me again and grinned. He looked so normal when he did that; it was easy to forget that there was anything wrong.

"I think she might write to me," he added, "she gave me her address."

"Oooh."

"Oh, shut up."

"Now there's a come back."

He just grinned again and shrugged, looking a bit embarrassed

"When do you expect to see them again?" I asked. I didn't think he'd be able to answer, but he seemed more cheerful and I wanted him to keep talking. Trouble was, I think I asked the wrong question again.

"I don't expect I shall." He answered quickly and easily, his eyebrows raised, surprised like.

"Why not?"

Here's where I started getting confused. I'd thought it was a simple enough question, but he just looked disconcerted as though he wished he'd not said anything in the first place. He was groping for his words again too.

"There wouldn't be a lot of point to it…now," he said quietly, then bit his lip and turned his head away.

It was that "now" that did it for me. Did he mean that there would have been a point to it before? What had changed? He sounded so sure…

"Will…"

"Why don't you just ask me?" he said a bit crossly. "You know you want to."

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Easier said than done, boyo, I thought. I had so many questions I didn't know where to start. Then I got what he meant.

"Simon."

He sighed and kicked his legs against the gate.

"He hates me," he said quietly. He sounded more uncertain than I'd ever heard him.

I didn't say anything. Not a lot of point in denying it was there?

"I don't know why," he added.

"Don't you?"

I could have kicked myself for asking like that. I hadn't meant to sound so…harsh. I think I was fed up with mysteries and worrying.

Will puffed out his breath and hunched his shoulders like he was in pain or something. He didn't answer for a while and I started to worry that I'd really offended him, when he jumped down from the gate and leaned against it, staring down at his feet with his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

"He's never really _liked_ me," he started tentatively. "In Cornwall…" He trailed off uncertainly and shuffled his feet.

Was this Will Stanton who always knew the right thing to say?

"We don't have anything in common," he said at last, which I thought was a bit lame. I think they had a lot in common. Middle class all the way through, they were. Maybe he meant they were different types of people?

"Simon's not very…imaginative," I said, which wasn't very helpful because it could have meant anything.

Will just hunched his shoulders up even further.

"It doesn't really matter, anyway," he said, sounding resigned.

I wondered why I was more angry about it than he seemed to be.

"Of course it matters."

"It doesn't," he said, meaning that I should drop it.

Fat chance.

"Doesn't it?"

He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye and almost smiled.

"Tenacious, aren't you?"

"Impressive vocabulary haven't you? Answer the question."

He shrugged. "I'm not going to see him again. Our…business is finished."

Funny way to put it.

"Working with him, were you?"

"In a manner of speaking"

He sounded agitated, which was pretty much how I was feeling.

"And when are you going to say something I can understand, then?" I asked and didn't bother to hide my annoyance.

He definitely caught it, because he turned around quickly as if he wanted to run.

"Bran…"

"Will, just tell me."

"_I can't!"_

And, _Duw_, there was so much anguish in his voice that I felt it right in the pit of my stomach. My heart started beating madly because I realised then that the problem with Will wasn't just Simon after all.

I was looking stupidly at his back. He turned to look at me again and for once, everything showed on his face.

"I can't."

I'd never seen Will cry and I don't expect I ever will, but he looked close to it then. He'd worked himself up into a right state and I hadn't even noticed because I'd been so intent on getting answers.

"Will…" What to say?

"There's…something I have to do," he said quickly and breathlessly as though he was afraid of his own words.

"Something…important. And I…I don't know how to do it and…" he stopped and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. I realised, all of a sudden, that I was the only person that he could say any of this to and I had to bite my lip to keep from talking.

"I just thought…I mean, I realised yesterday that…if I can't even work out what my own friends are thinking, how on earth will I be able to…?" He stopped again and was silent for so long that I knew I was not going to get anything more out of him.

Didn't stop me trying, though.

"What?"

"…to do what I have to do," he said softly. His words sounded like an apology.

"I can't tell you," he added and there was a kind of sadness in his voice made me realise that above everything else, he was my friend and I had to help him.

"Then don't tell me," I said.

He slumped in relief and I would almost have found it funny if I hadn't been so frightened for him.

"I want to tell you", he said and I believed him.

"I know"

He nodded and was silent.

It was strange to be stood there with the sounds of the farm all around us and a stiff breeze blowing the grass about. Almost normal. Trouble is, 'normal' and 'Will' don't belong in the same sentence. Didn't I say he needed looking out for? I was even surer of it then, but he wasn't going to let me do it, it seemed. I hoped his family would help him, but I guessed that they probably knew as little as I did about…whatever it was he had to do.

"I have to go," he said, "Uncle David's taking me to the station."

He sounded tired and looked drained.

"You'll come back, won't you?"

"Of course."

He looked surprised that I even had to ask, which was something at any rate.

"I'll try, anyway. I…I could work, you know. Help out around here. I could help your Da, or you if you need it?"

It was odd that he seemed to think he would only be welcome if he helped out. It made me feel sad, too.

"_ Dyn ni'n helpu ein gilydd,_" I told him quietly.

I doubt he understood me, but he put his hand on my shoulder in one of those odd, adult gestures of his and smiled slightly before turning away. I watched him trot away, his head down and his hands in those pockets again. I was certain he'd come back.

We had a lot more to say to each other, Will Stanton and I.

We were friends, after all.

TBC

Glossary

(I've never had to use one of these before!)

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Sais -Englishman

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geneth – girl

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Duw - God

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Iesu caradig – gentle Jesus

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Cwm Maethlon – Happy Valley (as if you didn't know)

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ysbryd – ghost

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Myrddin ab Morvryn - 6th century Welsh poet who may (or may not) be the inspiration for the legend of Merlin.

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dewinau - plural of _dewin_ - wizard

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Cymro - Welshman

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Dyn ni'n helpu ein gilydd - "We help each other"

Coming soon: Chapter 6 - The Kingdom of the Lost

What happens when Will goes home to Buckinghamshire?


	6. The Kingdom of the Lost

Disclaimer in first chapter!

Reviews will be fondly read, taken out to dinner and tucked up in bed with a cup of warm cocoa.

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Author's Notes: The title of the chapter comes from a fantastic book called "Familiarity is the Kingdom of the Lost" by Dugmore Boetie, set in the Apartheid era in South Africa. A reviewer described the Afrikaans protagonists in the story as: "asleep in a worn-out, broken down, deeply comforting familiarity-the kingdom of the lost-unaware of what is truly going on."

I'm not trying to draw any parallels with the story, of course, I just wanted to make use of one of my favourite book titles! And I think the description above resonates very well with the state of mind of the protagonists in TdiR who are not Old Ones _and_ the state that Will, deep down, yearns for himself.

BTW If anybody's wondering about the strangely old-fashioned train station in this chapter, don't forget that SotT is set in the late seventies when things like British Rail and Station Masters and platform tickets still existed (and I'm old enough to remember them too!)

Thanks to the following (who have really kept me writing):

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norah-hunt: Thanks, glad you enjoyed it. Sorry about the 6th chapter thing - I was being a dunce and an idiot and managed to upload chapter 5 twice. Doh! Never mind - _real_ chapter 6 up now! Chapter 7 may follow very soon, so keep your eyes peeled…

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kalariah: Glad you thought so - although I did find it much harder to write! I've always been really intrigued by notion of Bran _not_ knowing he's the Pendragon and he's going to stay ignorant about it for the rest of the story**. **I find it more interesting, character-wise, than him suddenly and conveniently remembering everything, but maybe that's just me…

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liptonrm: You write the best reviews! Thank you. I like angst, but it is difficult to maintain convincingly without a leavening of lighter moments, so I'm glad you thought it was OK. I enjoyed writing Bran and I think that when the reader knows far more than the character, you get subtler shading of emotion and lots of room for foreshadowing and irony etc. Glad to hear I'm not the only one who wants to hug Will - that impulse may get stronger over the next few chapters…

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Neonlights: Thanks! Don't know if it's good - but here's more anyway!

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callie: Got a big grin when I read your review - I tried very hard to stay in canon with the books because that was the only way I could fully explore the problems I had with SotT. Susan Cooper leaves so many unanswered questions and I always feel the need to tie up loose ends! There will be no easy answers though.

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Silver on the Tree: Your wish is my command - here's the next chapter for ya. I like the idea of using different perspectives, although this story will mainly concentrate on Will. Expect a few words from Paul at some point though…

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Kemenran: Ask and ye shall be given…

CHAPTER SIX

The Kingdom of the Lost

Will had never felt a homecoming quite like it.

It was the end of a long, dreary, tiring day; the rattling and slow train across mid-Wales to Birmingham, the smoother express to Reading, back on the small, crowded regional line eastwards along the Berkshire/Buckinghamshire border through Henley-on-Thames and Maidenhead and finally Windsor. An endless procession of grimy air and brick houses, of bumps and starts and metallic, hypnotic rhythms. He'd sat through it all in a stupor. Never talking, barely eating, trying very hard not to think.

He didn't start to come alive until, through a break in the trees, he glimpsed the flag fluttering above the Round Tower of Windsor Castle and knew that he was almost home. Not that Windsor was all that close to the Stanton Farm either (it was merely the most convenient station), but the sight of the landmark, familiar since early childhood, enveloped him in a sense of peace that he could scarcely ever remember having felt before. The persistent but usually ignored knot of tension in his shoulders eased slightly, but so suddenly that an aching throb ran the length of his spine and his head wobbled strangely, somehow too heavy for his neck.

His thoughts felt slow and halting after so many hours of wilful lethargy, but something like eagerness seemed to seep through the fog in his mind when the train began to ease gently into the station. As Will stiffly gathered his suitcase and rucksack, he wondered who would be coming to pick him up. Max probably, who had his afternoons free, working behind the bar of the local pub in the evening. Or Paul? Will remembered vaguely that his musical brother was coming home for a week between rehearsals and recitals, but the dates escaped him. It was even likely that there would be no-one waiting for him at the station door – Will thought of the memorable occasion when he'd come home from Wales the first time to find a message from his mother waiting for him with the Station Master requesting that he get the bus as far as High Wycombe as the car had been making strange noises all day. One got used to a certain amount of chaos where the Stanton family was concerned.

He was therefore totally unprepared when a large, capable hand grabbed his toppling suitcase as he struggled backwards onto the platform and his startled spin brought him nose-to-chest with his father's reassuring presence.

"Dad!"

Roger Stanton, the laughter lines around his eyes and mouth crinkling at the sight of his youngest son. Roger Stanton who should have been at work at this time, who had never picked Will up from the station in his life and who stood there smiling with a green platform ticket poking out of the top pocket of his jacket. Later, Will would wonder why his first reaction had not been apprehension, but caught in the moment, a sudden fierce gladness burst in his chest which wiped all other thoughts from his mind leaving him giddy and breathless.

"Hello Will. Good journey?"

Without waiting for an answer, Roger Stanton reached forward, gentle fingers ruffling quickly through his son's fringe, a thumb resting briefly at the corner of his eye, the ghost of a warm pressure close against his cheek, before landing on the strap of the rucksack and plucking it from Will's shoulder. 

"Come on, then," he said, turning and striding to the exit.

Will trotted after, his heart swelling. His father's gesture – so reticent and silent and so articulate of tenderness that Will had to swallow hard against the pressure in his throat even as the largest, stupidest grin broke onto his face.

He was home and it felt as though he was discovering the meaning of the word for the first time.

~~~~~#######~~~~~~

The hours of silence on the train were forgotten under a torrent of chatter. Will talked and talked, discovering within himself an almost frantic need to communicate. To connect. To prolong the almost ecstatic relief he had felt at the sight of his father's face. Roger Stanton interjected comments when the ripple of words faltered but for the most part was quiet as he carefully guided the ageing estate car through the mid-afternoon tourist traffic.

If the omission of Simon's or Blodwen Rowland's name from the narrative was noted, it was never acknowledged and Will could only be thankful for it.

As the car pulled away from the town and began its laboured journey through the gentle undulations of the Chilterns, Will's words finally ran out and a gentle silence fell upon the passengers of the car broken only by the whine of passing traffic and the overhead drone of aircraft heading for Heathrow. Will closed his eyes, enjoying the sun's warmth against his face and felt a small contented smile pull at his lips. He had been granted distance and a moment of soul-deep peace and he was accepting the gift without question.

Will was not a fool. He knew that his problems were not going to go away. He could feel the insecurity and fear and uncertainty like a darkness in him, unseen but oppressive, a threatening storm. But surely for a moment he could be still? - for a short time he could pass unnoticed through the noisy, seething, overwhelmingly loving mass of his family and gather strength. Decide exactly what he was going to do with the rest of his life.

__

A very long life…

The words whispered through his mind and despite the hard earned, fragile balance he had achieved, he winced. Feeling his father's eyes on his face, he turned his face to the window, breathing deeply.

"You look tired."

The voice was steady and surprisingly deep for a man of only average build. Will, who liked to think he knew his father rather well, did not miss the almost cautious quality of the statement and a ripple of unease passed over his features.

"Ah well - they start early on these Welsh farms, you know. Sheep and everything and er…other things to be done."

He kept his voice light, the tenor of the little speech inviting amusement. He risked a glance at his father's face and caught a half-rueful smile.

"Oh, I'm sure you were up with the lark every morning."

"Well…with the cockerel, maybe."

"Hmmm"

The response was typical, but Will sensed another question forming and knew his father was trying to ask him something but was unsure how to approach it. It seemed his moment of peace would be just that - a moment. But how could he prevent the concern of his family? Did he even want to? Will sighed again and asked a question of his own - one he had been avoiding diligently up to now.

"Why aren't you at work?"

The answer didn't come immediately and Will eyed his father cautiously. Mr. Stanton, his face thoughtful, changed gear with practised ease and glanced at his son. Their eyes met briefly before he turned back to the road ahead.

"We're almost home," he commented absently. Then lightly, "I thought I'd have a half day for a change. Had a late lunch at home, then came to get you."

Simple. And yet, not. Roger Stanton owned his own business, after all, and was entitled to close whenever he wanted. Except he rarely did anything of the kind. With nine children and six at home, even the loss of half a day trading could be felt and Will knew for a fact that his assistant Mrs. Collins only worked mornings.

So. Something else.

Will thought he knew what it was, and felt misery rise in his throat. He turned back to the passenger window again, knowing that he couldn't meet his father's eyes in whatever was to follow. He gazed out, unseeing, then without warning felt a shiver of apprehension that made him blink in alarm. His eyes refocused on the passing countryside, but the deep, sloping shadows under the trees, made darker by the sparkling late-afternoon sun disorientated him and it was a full minute before he realised that the car was slowing down.

Apprehension thrummed again, more urgent and focused. He knew at once that something had awakened the Old One in him. A flutter of panic, then that hidden quiescent part of him, the part that his family only barely glimpsed, took over and steadied his racing heartbeat. He forced himself to look properly and saw that his father was guiding the car onto a grassy verge

The verge at the corner of the turning into Tramp's Alley.

Will stared. Why had they stopped? Why here of all places? He knew he should ask the questions - that would be normal behaviour, but first…

…he listened to his heartbeat, felt the power roll through him like a breaking wave and…

Nothing.

The apprehension dimmed sharply. There was still power around him - he could sense the distant throbbing of it, like a deep rolling drum that still sounded through one of the Old Ways of Britain. But there was nothing malevolent here; in fact the silence was entirely benign. Then why had he…?

Will returned to himself abruptly, took a deep, slow breath. He was confused, doubting himself and his own instincts. It was the second time now that he had confused his own turbulent feelings for a more unnatural explanation. Didn't he know better than that? Tramp's Alley merely drowsed in the sunlight and Will slowly realised why he had felt so apprehensive. Wasn't it in this place that he had _first_ doubted himself? He associated it with shame and with fear - the stupid, uncontrollable fire, the insinuating menace of that witch-girl Maggie Barnes.

__

I'm too young for this, he thought suddenly and perhaps for the first time.

"Will?"

Will startled and cleared his throat nervously. Without thinking, he said,

"Why have we stopped?"

A little late to be asking the question, perhaps, but he was belatedly realising the oddity of his own behaviour. Mr. Stanton was silent for a moment and Will glanced up at him expecting to see the concern in his face but upset by it nonetheless.

"I wanted to ask you something."

"What?" he replied dully.

Roger Stanton shifted in his seat and half turned towards his son. He hesitated briefly, almost nervous, but when he spoke, his voice was very kind.

"I…that is, your Mum got a phone call from your Aunt Jen last night."

Will sighed and nodded, completely unsurprised.

"She was worried, I think. She told us about that Mrs. Rowlands and how you'd seemed quite...upset." A brief questioning glance followed. Anxiety in his father's eyes, a seeking of denial, maybe.

Upset. Had he been upset? Will wasn't sure any more. It seemed an odd way to put it and Will had to wonder what Auntie Jen's exact words had been. To tell the truth, after the initial shock, he hadn't given a thought to John and Blodwen Rowlands, so caught up had he been in his own problems. A shaming rush of guilt followed hard on this thought and he pressed his lips together, unsure what to say.

Of course, he had been silent too long and his father's anxiety could only increase. That word of his odd behaviour might get back home had not even occurred to him - so separate did the high places of Wales seem from the gentle ways of Buckinghamshire he had almost believed that he was the only thing connecting them. He was still unused to being the subject of others thoughts as well. It made him uncomfortable.

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Don't they have anything better to do?

He was surprised that his mental voice could sound to sullen and resentful. It seemed he was veering between arrogance and self-pity at an alarming rate.

"I'm okay," he blurted finally, willing his father to drop it.

"Are you?"

"Yes of course I am, Dad"

He tried to sound earnest and a little exasperated, but probably just sounded nervous because his father's brows drew together in a frown as he studied his son's face.

"I'm not so sure…" Roger Stanton began slowly, "… mean, I know she wasn't someone you knew very well, but David seemed to think…" He trailed off again and Will, who had never seen his father so uncertain, floundered briefly in a wash of insecurity.

"Did you really pass out?"

The raw concern in Mr. Stanton's voice hit Will like a fist in the stomach.

__

Fool, fool, fool

How had he thought this wouldn't get back to his parents?

"I…I wasn't feeling well," he responded lamely and then wished he hadn't because the excuse was hardly going to decrease his father's concern. Especially after last year. Hurriedly he continued, "I hadn't eaten. I…I…"

Why was everything so difficult? Hadn't he always been able to lie his way out of trouble before? When had he stopped being so sure of himself? He remembered how sad he had been about lying to Paul and to Stephen, but there had been so much self-righteousness in him then. Such certainty that he was doing the right thing and fighting the good fight and…

His father's hand closed gently over the back of his neck, cradling his head, stilling him. Will wondered if he looked distressed. The hand was so wonderfully comforting.

__

What does being an Old One have to do with being comforted?.

Yes. Well. This one found he needed it. He was a poor, miserable excuse for an Old One at the moment anyway.

"You know…I don't think you can ever be prepared for coming face to face with death," said Mr. Stanton slowly and contemplatively. "Especially sudden death. It's…it's shocking and awful and it's all right to feel upset."

Will felt a degree of his tension ease at the kindness – the common sense of his father's words. Roger Stanton was right – even though he was completely wrong; death was not something that should have disturbed an Old One. But Will was listening to what lay beyond the words. A father telling a son of his concern, expressing his support. In a moment, he would smile and ruffle his son's hair and they would go home and Will would know there was someone watching out for him. Someone who would neither intrude nor insist on explanations.

Yes, comforting. What was so wrong with _needing_ comfort? It brought perspective. It brought him back into himself. It brought him back to his family. His father's hand shifted and Roger Stanton did everything that Will had imagined he would.

~~~~~~~~~~~ ######### ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Engulfed in his mother's embrace, feigning annoyance and embarrassment, but inwardly grinning, Will revelled in the sights and sounds of his family.

Paul was home after all – had come that morning from London in fact and if the abstracted look on his face was anything to go on, had already spent most of the afternoon practising. Will, always somewhat awed by his brother's gift, smiled at him and received a warm look over the top of wire-framed glasses in response. Gwen and Barbara fussed around him as usual, keeping themselves busy as they did so – the large noisy kitchen was permeated with cooking smells. They had patted him and ruffled his hair and admonished him.

__

Probably checking I'm in one piece, thought Will amused, but touched by their inarticulate welcome. He ruefully acknowledged that he would always be the baby of the family no matter how old and wise he became.

__

All the more reason not to worry them.

He quashed the thought quickly and concentrated on James' enthusiastic, if incoherent description of the day's fishing. Shirtless and grass-stained, his next oldest brother was evidently delighted not to be the youngest in the household any more. An odd sort of welcome, but fairly typical and it made Will smile.

Max was slouched in the corner reading; he'd smiled and waved at Will's entrance, then returned to his book content to talk to his brother at a later time. So too with Robin, it seemed, who had merely shaken Will's shoulder in passing and was now deep in conversation with their father. Both faces were solemn and earnest, hands gesticulating.

__

They're talking about football, Will thought affectionately.

The next few hours passed in a kind of blissful daze. Dinner had arrived – liver and onions – which made Will disproportionately happy, if a little guilty at the look of disgust on James' face. Talk flowed over and around him. Sometimes quiet, more often louder than was bearable, but always seeking to include him. Will was reminded of that unspoken, protective concern they had all expressed that time, earlier in the summer. The nasty incident at the stream with Manny Singh…

…but memories like that reminded him too much of what he wanted to forget.

__

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll deal with it all.

Will was twelve years old and tonight he needed his family.

But nothing in his life had ever been that simple.

TBC

OK - sorry to leave you hanging a bit there, but this chapter was originally going to cover a lot more ground. I just don't know when to stop writing sometimes. I reached a natural break and thought I'd do the rest in the next chapter. I've already started writing it, so expect it soon. Maybe.

Coming soon: Chapter 7: Losing perspective.


	7. Losing Perspective

Disclaimer in first part.

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A/N: Hey - 2 chapters in 3 days, how good am I to you! This chapter pretty much wrote itself…

As you've all probably guessed by now, I'll still trying to tie up loose ends from the end of SotT - you'll see what I mean when you read this chapter. I couldn't help wondering just what would happen to all those Old Ones in Will's village, if Will was supposedly the only one left! Will's starting to get a bit more resentful in this chapter too. Don't worry, he's our boy and will prevail in the end - but a bit of suffering is good for the soul…

A big thanks for all my lovely reviewers. I'll never understand why the DiR fandom isn't any bigger as we all know how fantastic it is. Never mind, it's people like you who keep it going, so Kudos!

BTW, if you've read, but not reviewed, I'd love to hear from you (hint, hint)

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Kemenran: OK - here it is!

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Silver on the Tree: I love Will's family - it reminds me of my own, only with fewer siblings! Will won't be able to forget stuff for much longer, though…

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Norah-hunt: You must have read my mind or something - what have we got in this chapter but a Will/Paul confrontation. Yay! I love Paul, one of my favourite characters, so I couldn't wait to make use of him. He'll have a bit more to do later on as well. Sorry, but he's not going to remember anything about the past in this fic. BTW, congratulations on submitting your first fic!

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Kalariah: I don't think even Will realises how much his family notices - he's going to have his work cut out for him fending off their questions for the next few chapters. He will stay strong though - except perhaps a bit _too_ strong…(cue foreboding music).

Read and review, guys, read and review.

CHAPTER 7

Losing Perspective

When the knock on the door came, Will merely lifted his head from his conversation with Robin and smiled vaguely in the direction of his father who had heaved himself from his comfortable armchair and padded towards the front hall. Later he would wonder why he had felt no alarm and supposed he had been too relaxed, but couldn't bring himself to regret a quiet evening at home.

"I wonder who that is?" James said vaguely, unmoving. He lay on the carpet with his feet up on the sofa; not a position made for comfort, but he seemed happy enough.

Paul glanced up from his book, amusement evident on his solemn face.

"If you can bear to wait for thirty seconds, you'll probably find out," he said dryly.

Mary, who was doing something mysterious involving a heap of paper and a stick of glue, looked up from the coffee table distractedly and yelled, "Mum! Someone at the door!"

Gwen was frowning, slightly irritated that she couldn't hear the television properly but knowing she'd probably have to turn it off anyway. 

"It's quite late for visitors," she said, "I hope…" but broke off when male voices filtered out from the hall, approaching the living room.

"Come in," said Mr. Stanton ushering their guest through the doorway. Gwen immediately stood up and crossed to the television set, sighing quietly. Will had to crane his neck around her to see who it was.

Gwen moved forward to stand with Paul and Will caught a glimpse of a pink, jovial face. Mr Beaumont? What was the rector doing at the Stanton Farm? Not that he was an infrequent visitor, but not usually at - he glanced at the clock on the chimneypiece - a quarter to nine in the evening. 

Mrs. Stanton emerged from the kitchen.

"Rector! How lovely to see you. What brings you here tonight?" 

"Good evening my dear!"

The rector stepped forward, taking Will's mother's hand in both of his own. 

"You have a full house tonight, I see."

Mr. Beaumont glanced around the room, taking in the faces of the eight Stantons in the room. He smiled at Will.

"Will, my boy. You're back? I hope you had a good trip. You were missed on Sunday - the fourteenth Psalm just wasn't the same without your treble."

The rector rambled enthusiastically, which was as usual, but Will had known the man for most of his life and noticed a touch of strain to his greeting. Glancing over, he caught Paul's eye and knew that his elder brother had noticed also. Will felt a faint stirring of something. A sort of - disconnection. Should he have been alarmed after all?

__

Don't start, he told himself firmly. His hypersensitivity had got him into enough trouble over the past couple of days. Was he going to start suspecting the rector now?

"What can we do for you?" Mr Stanton was asking curiously. Perhaps Will and Paul were not the only ones to have noticed something off-key. 

The rector broke off and cast a half-questioning look towards Mr. Stanton,

"I'm assuming, since you are asking, that you haven't heard the news?"

Will's father frowned.

"What news?"

"Well, I thought not." Mr. Beaumont shrugged with a small grimace passing over his face, "I'm not surprised, hardly anyone in the village had heard about it this morning, and...well, I took it upon myself to be the bearer of sad news, I suppose. Pastoral duty! Such a pity..."

He trailed off again and Roger Stanton, understandably confused, glanced at his wife, then at his children. He blinked when his eye fell on Will and something seemed to occur to him so that his eyes widened. He turned quickly back to the rector, a question forming on his lips and Will, surprised and somewhat disconcerted, took a shuffling step backwards. Something clamoured for attention in his mind…

"Do you mean...has someone died?" asked Mr. Stanton

"Yes. Yes, that's it. I had rather a shock when I heard myself. It happened yesterday afternoon, I believe, while he was away from home as well which is what makes it so very...and only in his early sixties as well! I suppose..."

"Mr. Beaumont!" Mrs. Stanton's voice broke through the rector's characteristic ramble, "Who has died?"

Will, rigid with shock and alarm heard their voices as if from a long way away. He didn't need to be told who had died.

He knew already.

The knowledge had entered his mind as though it had been there all along. Perhaps it had? Will wasn't sure, but it was part of being an Old One seemingly. This had happened before - a moment when a door in his mind swung open and in one dizzying, disorienting instant, as though Cafall were looking into his eyes, he knew everything…

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The Old Ones. Oh my God, the Old Ones.

Knowing didn't help at all. He shuddered in shock, ignoring the exclamations, the swirl of voices around him.

__

How could I have forgotten? I should have anticipated this…

Self-loathing seethed in him - at his stupidity, at his inability to understand the implications of his situation. He was the only Old One left. He knew this, but had never grasped the reality. Images floated in his mind like memories - but not _his_ memories. Other people's memories. Implanted memories.

Miss Greythorne - she had been on the train. She had smiled at him - that charming, youthful smile. _Miss Greythorne who everybody believed had died last year._

John Smith and his wife. _They had retired and moved to Bournemouth in the spring. No one had heard from them since._

Frank Dawson. Who had helped him, who had made his birthsign with his capable hands and far-seeing eyes. _Who had died yesterday_.

But Old Ones didn't die. Did they? For one brief, panicked instant, Will wasn't sure. But no, they couldn't die. They were journeying somewhere. Like Merriman and like Arthur. Their work was finished and some had served for so long…

Had any of them planned their own departure? Had Merriman taken care of it? Why had he not known this until now?

"_Will._"

Had someone called his name?

"_Will!"_

Starting back to the present, Will turned instinctively towards his brother's urgent whisper. Paul was staring at him in alarm, a hand hovering over his youngest brother's shoulder as if to hold him upright.

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"Are you all right? You're as white as a sheet!"

Will stared stupidly back, hardly understanding the words.

"What?"

Paul bit back another exclamation, and glanced over at the rest of the family. Will automatically followed his eyes and saw them clustered around the rector. His mother looked upset and Mr. Stanton stood with his arm around her. Soft, solemn voices were asking questions - being answered…

He felt a tug on his arm. Another. Paul was dragging him towards the kitchen and he stumbled after automatically, his mind still seeing the shocked, grieved look on his mother's face.

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But he's not dead…

He began to come back to himself, started to resist his brother's firm pull, but everything was happening too quickly, the after-shocks of revelation still felt in the trembling of his legs. Paul pushed him into a chair and thrust his head between his legs before he could protest, those long-fingered musicians hands strong on his back and head. Blood rushed to his head and he took a deep breath. Shame rushed through him.

…_twice in as many days?…_

Then a heart-sinking fear of repercussions. He was not some shrinking, cowardly idiot to be doing this any more! He struggled, wrenched his head up, tried to pull away from the clutching hands.

"What's the matter with you?"

That Paul's normally calm voice should sound so jagged with alarm was not to be borne. Will closed his eyes and forced another deep breath into his lungs, driving the tension out of his legs and trying to calm the sudden fight-or-flight panic that had overtaken him.

"Sorry…" he cleared his throat, steadied his voice and tried again, "Sorry. I'm all right now. Sorry. You can let go."

Paul must have understood that he had felt trapped for a moment, for the hands lifted away slowly and Will opened his eyes and looked into his brother's face. Paul watched him cautiously.

"Are you sure?"

Will nodded. Paul let out a breath and shifted away, leaning back on his heels.

"You scared me! I thought for a moment…"

Paul bit his lip and looked at Will askance as though assessing him.

"You're not ill are you?"

Will felt his eyes widen and hurriedly said,

"No! No, I'm fine. It was…the shock, I think." He grasped at the explanation David Evans had unwittingly given him just the day before.

Paul nodded slowly, brow furrowed.

"Yes, well I thought so. Shocked us all silly, I think - came out of the blue a bit didn't it? Poor old Mr. Dawson."

"Hmm"

Will thought about moving again, but Paul had always seen too much and he knew he would not be allowed to get away so easily.

"It must have been a nasty moment for you, " Paul began hesitantly. Will sighed and raised his eyebrows questioningly, still not fully trusting his voice.

"Mum told us that someone you knew in Wales had died suddenly too."

The statement finished in a slight interrogative note. Paul was inviting his brother to talk about it, but Will, although partly relieved at the simple explanation for his behaviour, found himself hesitating in his turn. How could he explain to Paul that it wasn't the deaths, it was the… circumstances surrounding them? He would have to lie again - to Paul who was so concerned and so kind. Paul, to whom he had lied before and who so little deserved such treatment. 

"It wasn't _that_…" Will began slowly, attempting a half-truth, but stopped at the surprise on his brother's face.

__

I can't! How can I possibly explain? It's impossible.

He lapsed into silence, sighing.

"What do you mean?"

Will looked down at his hands.

"Nothing. I don't know."

An exasperated sigh. Paul leaned forward again and nudged Will's chin up with his hand.

"Will, is there something bothering you?"

Will shrugged, still reluctant to lie so blatantly.

Paul's lips tightening.

"You do like your secrets, don't you? I never know what's going on in your head these days."

__

You're not the only one

But Will had just about enough sense left to know he couldn't possibly continue like this. He needed time to sort everything out and establish exactly what sort of alternative history it was that everyone seemed to remember. A strange emotion seemed to wash through him and his hands trembled with the force of it.

__

Anger. I'm angry?

He hated this. Hated not knowing things until it was almost too late, as though being an Old One was a switch that turned on; that he was expected to forget all about being Will Stanton when it did. Hated that he understood the need for it too - he was complicit in every cold, necessary decision the Light had taken. Trouble was, no one had bothered to tell him how he was supposed to cope with this double life. Strangely, it hadn't seemed to be a problem until now.

And his family… He looked at Paul's earnest face. Of all the Stanton brothers, they were most alike in temperament and Paul saw deeper into Will than any of the family. He also had memories of his brother that were precious to him - moments that he held close to himself, that seemed to define their relationship. Like the flute…

Will suddenly, desperately, wanted to know if Paul still shared the same memories. He needed so badly to know he wasn't alone.

"Paul?"

"Yes, Will?"

Will swallowed, then said in a rush,

"Why do you have Miss Greythorne's flute?"

Paul gaped at him, completely nonplussed.

"What in the world…?"

"Please, Paul. Tell me."

"Will... are you sure you're all right? Why…?"

"How did you get it?"

Paul blinked at him, curiosity and concern warring for dominance in his face. He shook his head suddenly in disbelief and squinted appraisingly at his young brother.

"I don't suppose you're going to tell me _why_ you want to know…?"

"No"

"…Which would be pointless, seeing as you were there when it happened."

"Was I?"

"_Yes!_"

"Tell me anyway."

His brother sighed with exaggerated patience. Will wondered if Paul thought he was having a joke at his expense.

"She left it to me in her will."

Will felt cold sweat break out on his forehead.

"Her will?"

"Yes. You remember - the lawyers brought it over to the house, with a letter from her and everything."

He didn't remember. He could only see Merriman, smiling, with the package in his hands and Paul's quiet joy at the loan of the beautiful instrument. He'd been so happy in that moment, so proud of his accomplishments and so glad for Paul.

But Paul apparently remembered it differently.

Will felt like crying. He couldn't bear to ask any more questions. His connection with his family suddenly seemed strange, twisted, out of shape - like a drawing with no perspective. Someone (Merriman?) had changed the memories in his brother's mind. It was like a _violation_…

Nausea hit suddenly and hard. Breathless, desperate, Will shoved Paul aside, staggered across the kitchen floor and vomited into the sink.

Several awful minutes passed before he became aware of the arms supporting him, a gentle hand rubbing his back. He was crying weakly, the tears of sheer physical misery washing away in the gush of water from the tap. He was suddenly so tired; completely drained, and fine tremors shuddered their way up and down his arms.

__

Paul must think I've cracked 

He couldn't bring himself to care much. He just wanted to sleep now and not to dream.

"Better?"

Paul's quiet, tentative voice. A hand swept his damp fringe out of his eyes. Will nodded weakly.

"Have you finished?"

He nodded again.

"Do you want me to get Mum?"

Will shrugged but couldn't say yes. He was unused to asking for help and was uncomfortable with feeling so vulnerable.

"Will? Paul? Are you in here? The rector is leaving."

Mrs. Stanton's voice drifted over from the kitchen door, leaving Will's ambivalence redundant. He felt relieved and ashamed in equal measure.

"Over here, Mum," said Paul, "Will's not very well."

Will, still leaning forward over the sink, didn't bother to protest. His mother couldn't fail to notice his damp, pale face and the faint acrid smell lingering, in any case. He kept his eyes closed through the quiet exclamation, the quick footsteps on the tiled floor, Paul's muttered explanation. He was so tired…

Mrs. Stanton gently turned him round and felt his forehead. He blinked up at her business-like face.

"Do you need a doctor?"

"No." Said quietly but with certainty.

She believed him. She had enough experience with illness to know symptoms of mild shock when she saw them. She nodded understandingly, then pulled him into a brief heartfelt hug.

"You've had a long day, love. Why don't you go to bed?"

He nodded again, flooded with relief. His fringe was treated to yet another caress. 

"We'll see how you feel in the morning. All right?"

"Yes, Mum"

She brought his head down to kiss his hair, then guided him towards the stairs.

"Go on then. Call me if you feel sick, again."

"'Night, Mum."

"'Night, love."

He smiled at her, then glanced over at Paul who stood quietly by the table with concern in his face and a calculating look in his eyes.

"'Night, Paul"

"I'll see you in the morning."

There was no answer to that loaded statement, so Will escaped abruptly and dragged himself up to his attic bedroom.

He was so tired, he couldn't even be bothered to undress, so flopped down on the bed as soon as he entered the room. The only light came from the moon through the skylight and Will stared at it blankly until he felt his eyelids droop and sleep claim him.

__

I'll do better tomorrow. I'll try harder.

TBC

Coming soon: Chapter 8: Gaining Control


End file.
